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1.30.2013

Global Cerebral Atrophy.

"And if he has no arms or legs we'll hang him on the wall and call him Art."

For a second it was morbid, then it was eye opening, then a little morbid still. But it was true.

Months ago, we thought it had become reality.

"We don't know entirely what this means. He might never walk, talk, communicate. He might be closer to normal function than that." Tears poured down my face uncontrollably. I had resolved not to cry, but as a mother- there's no way you can't cry when your worst fears (second to worst fears) become reality.

"You have the worst job ever." I said to her through a teary, shaky voice. Her face was kind, compassionate, she almost seemed like an old friend. It wasn't a hateful statement, it was me feeling empathy for her while watching me listen to this news.

I looked at my son and I kissed his very sick little head.

Had I lost the boy that had come in here?

I don't think we did, now. But then, I didn't know. I didn't know at all if he was going to know me, if he was going to be completely unable to communicate, to smile even.

Would I ever see his smile again?

Nick and I felt like the world had collapsed. To fight for four months to get this 'news'. Did it change how much we loved our son?

No.

It only changed our circumstances, it would never change how much we loved him or how hard we would work to take care of him. If he survived this, if he got better... We planned.

We planned for a wheelchair. We talked about 24 hour care for him, homecare, suctioning. We talked about one thing that meant the most to us, that we would love him and take care of him the best out of any parent that ever had to deal with that.

Like we always had done, we would love him the best we could, even if he couldn't say he felt it.

And the phrase came into my head that Nick's Dad had said months and months ago.

"If he had no legs or arms, we would hang him on the wall and call him art."